Sighing, for I was quite full, I rose lazily and unlatched the door, which opened to reveal the freckled face of Druda. I believe I blushed, for during my supper I had been having thoughts of a somewhat speculative nature about this serving-wench, the speculation directed mainly at what she might look like without her very proper clothing. And indeed she lowered her eyes most fetchingly, but then broke the spell by giving me a message from the innkeeper: namely, that my friend had arrived and was waiting for me. Puzzled, I followed her downstairs. There was the innkeeper, somewhat the worse for food and drink at this late hour, scratching his head groggily.
'Ah, my dear sir! Your friend has returned… no, no, that is not it. He has not returned, but sent a message back for you with a gentleman.' 'A gentleman? Is he here?'
'No. He waits outside. Apparently he had made prior arrangements for his accommodation..he shook his head, as if such a thing were completely unthinkable. 'He has yet to settle his horse, and would not let my groom near it. These northerners! Oh, I beg your pardon sir: this gentleman is from the north of these lands, not your own brave and magnificent country’ he went on, regaining some of his unctuousness.
'How vexing’ I muttered. I did not wish to go out again. But I supposed that I must, so I opened the heavy door and was about to step out when the innkeeper exclaimed behind me: 'Good God, your honour! Do not go out in the night air without your cloak! The draught will kill you! The man who was looking for you: Christ's blood, but his tunic was so short you could see his knees!'
I waved him off, for what could be more ridiculous than a Devon man laid low by cold air, and stepped out, leaving consternation behind me. The street was dark, of course, and empty. I was about to go back inside when I heard a snort and the unmistakable clack of a shod hoof on stone, coming from further down the hill. The gentleman, whoever he was – and I half-thought it might be a friend from the Cormaran, perhaps Zianni, for who else would be wearing a cycladibus out here in the country – must have grown tired of waiting, and set off to find his own lodgings. Feeling that to retreat back into the warmth of the inn would be something of a defeat, and not wishing to prove that fussing old woman of an innkeeper right, I set off after him. If the message he bore was urgent, I would save time and, besides, it was a fine night for a stroll, and I had a large supper to walk off.
The hill was steep and the dew had already begun to wet the cobbles, so I went slowly, confident that I would soon catch a man leading a horse. But when I reached the point at which the street gave out upon the stairway that led down to the cathedral I still could see no one, and there were no more noises to guide me. Well, I had missed him. Apparently whatever message he bore could wait until tomorrow. Feeling rather glad that I could still enjoy what was left of the evening, and suddenly quite happy to be outdoors, I decided to stroll down and look at the cathedral, for doubtless I would have no time on the morrow.
I wandered down the wide steps and across the square. The stars gave enough faint light to show the carvings on the pillars and the cathedral walls: beasts and birds, carved in the strong, strange manner of a century before. I stared up at the towering campanile, patted the head of a stone lion, and – finally admitting to myself that the air was a trifle chilly – decided to start back to the inn. I had traversed the square and had just set foot on the bottom step when two things happened at once. I heard the clash of hooves pounding on cobbles, and looked up to see a figure standing at the top of the steps. I raised my hand, hoping it was not the Watch – and perhaps he had summoned help, for why else would anyone be riding at breakneck speed up that infernally steep hill? And at that moment, hurling sparks to left and right, the horse came into view. The watchman, if so he was, turned and threw up a hand, there was a flash of cold light and the horse sped on, clambering more than running up the hill, the memory of sparks staining my vision. The clatter was barely fading when I heard another sound: a hollow thud, thunk, thud, and saw the watchman collapse into shadow. But still that noise came, like old winter turnips thrown into a barrel, and as I started to run up the steps I understood what was making it. For down the stairs towards me rolled a ball, and as it bounced and juddered to a halt above me I saw that it was a human head.
Half disbelieving my eyes, I squatted down to make sure, and felt the bile burning its way up my throat, for sure enough I beheld a tangle of wet hair and a pale ear. With infinite reluctance I stood and turned it a little with my foot. The face of Giovanni the groom grinned up at me, teeth clenched, a black bubble swelling and bursting as I watched. I turned aside and puked, then swallowing hot bile and curses, I ran up the remaining steps to where the rest of Giovanni lay in an unseemly tangle of misarranged limbs. There was no sign of his murderer, although the cobbles of the street were scarred with livid marks where the horseshoes had gouged them, and the smell of metal against stone still hung in the air, mingling with the darker scent of blood and fresh shit. I felt very tired all of a sudden and sank down next to the corpse, and noticed that before he died, Giovanni had put on my lovely blue riding-cape.
I raised the alarm, of course, although no alarm had needed to be sounded, for the horseman had awoken everyone in the street and perhaps in the whole town. The innkeeper was beside himself, and the inn filled with wails and groans as four watchmen bore the groom's corpse in upon a trestle, his head perched grotesquely upon his chest. It was explained, first to the watchman and then to me – and then, over and over again, to the whole congregation – that the innkeeper, fearing for my safety and seeking to protect me from the deadly air, had sent Giovanni after me with my cape – hanging by the door, sir – which the poor boy must have put on, for the night was cold and he must have thought he would catch his death without it, poor boy – may the saints and the Holy Mother clasp him to their breasts – and so the robber or bandit, or whoever had done this terrible thing – may devils chew upon his liver for eternity – had caught him out in the empty street.
For some reason the fact that he had been wearing my cape seemed to escape the quick minds of the Watch. And I myself, and indeed the other guests, were all but forgotten in the chaos that had descended upon the inn. The messenger who had come looking for me – this detail too was brushed aside. Still I lingered, half-expecting to be arrested by the Watch, but when a parcel of old, black-clad crones arrived, silent but grimly excited, to lay out the body, I slipped away unnoticed. Back in my room, I secured the latch and pushed the room's one chair, a vast and hideous affair carved from oak, but fortunately for my purposes as heavy as granite, against the door. Then, my hands trembling in earnest now, I pulled the Captain's letter from my tunic.
The front was blazoned with a large P and sealed with black wax into which the image of a flying, sharp-winged bird had been pressed. I took out my knife and used it to prise up the seal without breaking it. Then I opened the letter. At first I thought it had been dropped in water and the ink all run together, so dark was the page. But looking closer I realised that the Captain had covered every fraction of the vellum with script. I cursed gently. I could not wait for daylight, and yet surely I would be able to read nothing in this paltry light. Looking around the room I saw three other little rush lights dusty and unlit in a corner. Lighting these, I arranged all four flames in a crescent on the floor and, stretching out on the cold tiles, I found I could more or less make out the writing. Petroc of Aunefordy from Michel de Montalhac, greetings! The letter began conventionally enough, and this I took to be a hopeful sign. And it was not in cipher, Saint Lucy's rolling eyeballs be praised. The Captain disdained such things, though, for as he said, in ignorant times such as ours, plain script is cipher enough. My own eyeballs watering in protest, I read on: I am hopeful that this letter will reach you in Rome. If it does not, the bearer must perforce chase you the length of Italy for you must have this news. I am at Imperia, a week's ride from Venice. The letter is entrusted to the swiftest horsemen, but it may be that I will be not so far behind it. No matter. There is reason for my haste, and great need for haste on your part as well
There is no time for lavish explanation. My journey was short, for I heard Louis Capet was near Marseilles, and so had no need to cross the Alps. Louis C was eager – nay, ravenous -for that item of which I bore tidings. It was the work of an hour, sitting under an olive tree as per his custom, to negotiate a transfer: aid to Baldwin de Courtenay in the form of funds, in return for said item. The next day the king let fly the great bow of state, and sent me speeding into the east in the company of two Dominican brothers who have the power to offer a great portion of the French treasury in return for -I repeat myself – said item. So far, most satisfactory, but as we made ready to depart I discovered that the banks there were abuzz with rumour: the French king calling on his reserves and credit, and suing for more credit, to raise a gigantic sum, reason unknown. Excellent, thought I. But bankers' news flies fast as greed, for now this came to my ears.
It is not by chance that I share a banking house with the Republic of Venice. In that infinitely malleable place, everything has its price, especially information, and the bank's agent in Marseilles had some for me, namely this: young Baldwin de Courtenay is up to his eyebrows in debt to Venice, and the Doge is getting impatient. He is about to make the strongest demand upon Baldwin’s Regents in Constantinople for collateral – or he perhaps already has, for matters are not clear. In a bankrupt kingdom, what can collateral mean? Olive oil? I rather think not.
Petroc, I fear our nice, easy coup is in the process of going badly awry. I require you in Constantinople with Gilles now, not in Venice. Horst will go with you. I can all but hear you ask, why must it be me? I trust Gilles had a talk with you about the greater trust we would like to place on your shoulders. Well, we are calling upon you sooner than we had thought. As Gilles perhaps also told you, I wish to bring you into the heart of our business. Well then, at this moment there is no place more vital to that business than the Pharos Chapel in Constantinople. Gilles needs a strong companion. Do not tremble. Patch: it is for your quick wit that he needs you, and for your excellent Greek which the Vassileia Anna drilled into you. This affair will be words, not daggers. A hundred pardons for wrenching you from what I hope has been a pleasant tour of pleasant lands, but you will see wonders, my friend. I will require a full report of them, you may be sure! Until then, I wish you speed and safety. Gilles will instruct you, do not fear. Farewell! Michel de Montalhac, in Lyons Patch: Pay Attention! Jesus. My stomach cramped suddenly with anxiety, and I dragged myself up off the floor and staggered to the window. I thought I might puke the rest of my rich dinner out into the night, but the warm and resin-scented air calmed me at once, and I found that my turmoil had given way to a strange, buoyant calm. It seemed that Venetians were all around me. The Captain had made no mention of danger: This affair will be words, not daggers, he had said. Well, that was rather obviously no longer true. I was ahead of him with the news. Venice had taken Baldwin himself as collateral. And I held a papal decree that gave Baldwin absolution from simony. With this instrument, whoever controlled Baldwin could strip his empire of every holy relic it possessed and sell them for hard cash. Business gone awry, Horst? I should say so. I should very definitely say so.
With a clarity I had not felt since arriving in London – nay, since the time, long ago it seemed now, that I had set out in the dark of night to steal the bones of Saint Cordula from her island shrine – I turned my head to the east. A half moon was hanging above the turrets of the fortress. It was waxing, and shone so brightly it dazzled my eyes to look upon its face. All was quiet save for the whirr of insects and the piping of the bats. I would leave immediately, I decided all at once. I would ride through the end of the night, and feel the dew gather on my horse's mane. I would see the sun rise before me, and I would take my course down to the sea. I held up my hand. It glowed softly in the light of the waning moon, just risen over the roofs of the town, and cast a crisp shadow on the windowsill. I closed my eyes and imagined the moon working on my blood as it worked upon the waters of the ocean, pulling me ever to the East. I saw a sea of white, dancing light, and beyond, the long walls and strange spires of Byzantium.
I pulled out my old rag-pickers'-market cloak and tied it around my waist with my sword belt. The cloak was black, which was good: patched and faded as it was, it would attract no attention. Nevertheless I cursed Giovanni for denying me my new cape, then cursed myself for my ingratitude, for the poor fellow had undoubtedly saved my life with the surrender of his own. I was pretty sure that Iblis would be unguarded in the stable, for everyone would be downstairs, gawping at the body, but how to leave unseen? I pondered this for a moment. It would be good to slip away, and to put a distance between me and the Venetian, whoever he was, before he discovered his mistake. Peering out of the window I considered jumping down on to a lower roof that jutted out below me, but it looked slippery with lichen and the tiles were crumbling to boot. So there was nothing else for it. I unhooked my sword from its belt and tied it against the saddlebag, which I slung over my shoulder. The bed, so comfortable and clean, mocked me as I laid a gold piece on the bolster, more than ample payment for my stay. Then I heaved the chair out of the way and peered out into the hallway.
There was no one there, and the rush lights had almost burned out. A great commotion came from downstairs, grief-filled wailing, but also the excited chatter of men. I tiptoed down the stairs, and craned my neck over the banisters. The entry hall was empty. All the noise was coming from the back of the inn, for they had laid Giovanni out in the dining room. Sending up a prayer of thanks, I was about to let myself out of the front door when it struck me that the place was probably being watched. Or perhaps not, I thought, hand beginning to sweat on the latch-ring. The murderer must surely have fled? Yes, but what if he had not? Biting my Up in vexation at my own wariness, I turned back. The kitchens were this way. Had I not seen the groom disappear that way, a coin in his hand, with orders to lavish the finest bran upon my horse? I thought perhaps I had.
The kitchen was empty too, and I snatched up a flitch of bacon from the table and a bottle of wine from the floor. From behind a door in the far wall came the sound of dreaming horses. It was dark in the stables, and I had to light a lamp with my tinderbox, taking care not to spill any sparks on the straw. Iblis was not best pleased to see me advancing upon him with his saddle, but let me belt it on, snicking his teeth and shaking his head.
You have no idea’ I assured him. By way of apology I waved a full nosebag in front of his eyes. 'This for later, good beast. Now we must hurry.'
I guessed it was still not quite midnight by the time I led Iblis out into the night. There was no sign of a watcher with a horse, thankfully; but I had no wish to attract attention, and indeed I knew full well that I was far too poor a rider to canter, or even trot, down these almost sheer streets. First, thinking to find a back way out of the town, I climbed to the very top of the hill, past a little church standing at the end of its own square, and beyond to an open space filled with ruins and sleeping goats. Then the land dropped off into a sheer, wooded ravine so deep that I could barely hear the rush of water below. So I led Iblis back, and we walked slowly down a quiet street that seemed to run parallel to the one we had come up that evening. Sure enough we soon came to an ancient-looking archway I remembered, and then I took both our lives in my hands and plunged down a stepped alleyway. But the wide way coiled about the hillside and after a few agonising minutes of tripping and slipping on dewy stone only to find we had again fetched up on the main street I gave up and swung myself on Iblis. The gate was not far now. I tried to remember if I had heard a curfew bell, and thought perhaps I hadn't, and indeed the gate was open, although a knot of men-at-arms lounged around a glowing brazier. I had buckled my sword back on by then, and was wondering if I would have to charge the guards when one of them, scratching his arse and leaving his halberd leaning against the wall, wandered into my path, hand held up more in greeting than warning.
What cheer, friend?' He asked. There was no edge to his voice, only wine and the lateness of the hour.
'Not much, friend,' I answered in my thickest Roman accent, hoping that it would disguise my poor Italian. I must be in Assisi by dawn, and it is a ways away, right?'
'That it is. But why travel by night? You should be by the fire.'
'Ah, I was? I told him, leaning down with what I trusted was an easy smile on my face. 'Fell asleep, didn't I? In company, if you get my meaning. Should have set out this morning, but…' I threw in a leer for good measure. 'Now, my masters a churchman, and an important one, and he'll have my skin for a book-binding if he finds I’ve killed a day in the arms of a wench. So I'm happy to risk a ride under the stars’ I finished with a wink. To my relief the man winked back, a conniving grin spreading across his bristly chops.
Wouldn't want a flaying on my conscience’ he said. 'All right, be off with you.'
'Thank you, friend’ I said. 'By the bye, I'm not from these parts, in case you hadn't noticed. I take the north road, yes? How far do I have to go?'
You'll make it by sunrise if you hurry’ said the guard. 'The road takes you up the valley. It's not yet midnight, and you should be in Foligno by the fourth vigil. If you aren't, ride like the Devil, my friend! Leave the road at Foligno, keep Spello on your right and you'll keep your skin.'
I bid him farewell, and even waved at the other guards, who ignored me. Beyond the gate the road stretched out into the plain between two mountain ranges, one low, one high and steep. I trotted for a few yards until the gate had fallen far enough behind, then kicked Iblis into a gallop. Away we sped amongst the willows. My plan was to catch up with Horst at Foligno, if indeed he was still there, for two would travel more safely than one, and Horst would know better than I how to deal with the nasty turn things had taken. So I hurried on, giving Iblis his head for a mile or so and then walking for a bit, then racing on again. I was keeping an ear cocked for pursuers, but nobody seemed to have followed me, and the road was utterly deserted.
Not a friendly country. No, not by any means. The innkeeper's words fluttered around my head and I tried to keep my nerves at bay, though my path led through land that, while it was no doubt pretty in the light of day, was decidedly sinister under the moon. It was flat, and criss-crossed with streams and ditches. Shadowy willows and poplars lurked on either side. But on my right, on the dark mountainside, white villages gleamed, and that made me feel less alone. I did not tarry, though, and saw the towers of Foligno rise before me well before the stars had begun to fade. Now at last I decided to rest, for if the Spoleto watch had been careless, the gates ahead might be more vigilant, and I did not think a night-traveller would be welcomed. So I found an ivy-swarmed ruin a little way off the road, gave Iblis his long-promised nosebag at last, drank some wine and stretched out before the remains of the fireplace, my sword unsheathed at my side.
I did not sleep long, for a pair of doves fell into conversation in the ivy above my head just after dawn. I arose and looked out of the one remaining window on to a lake of fog, above which the mountains rose, glowing pink. I breakfasted on cold bacon and set off for Foligno. It must have been market day, for the country folk were crowding through the gate, pushing carts, riding on wagons or simply lugging great bags and baskets. I fell in line behind a peasant family pulling a trolley piled with baskets that held fat white geese, hissing and cackling in fury. This town, I was glad to see, was flat, and I headed straight for its centre, steering by the tallest campanile.
It was the habit of the company of the Cormaran to take the best lodgings in whatever town they found themselves, and so I asked my way to the Golden Fleece, which everyone seemed to think was the fanciest inn, and which I found in a narrow street lined with the grand houses of rich merchants, just behind the main square. It was indeed a comfortable place by the looks of it. I went in, and I was wondering if I might dare risk a sleep in one of its no doubt luxurious beds, when a plump and pretty woman emerged from a side room. She saw me and began wringing her hands.
'No rooms, dear sir, no rooms today, and I beg your pardon for it!' she exclaimed.
'Nay, I do not wish for a room’ I told her, noting that she was ashen and that the skin under her eyes looked almost bruised. 'I am seeking a friend of mine. He might have stayed here last night or the night before – Horst of the Cormaran, Tall, half an ear, German?'
'Oh, dear God!' sighed the woman, and sagged against a table. She began to fan herself with a hand, and I thought she would faint. I too suddenly felt dizzy.
'Good lady, what ails you?' I asked, tremulously, for perhaps I knew. ‘Your poor friend!' she burst out. 'Oh, for pity's sake…'
Just then a younger man hurried down the hall and took her shoulders. He gave me a slit-eyed look. 'Good wife, who is this?' he demanded.
'Petrus Zennorius, at your service’ I informed him, bowing politely. 'I merely enquired after a friend whom I hoped to meet here, one Horst, but I appear to have given grave offence.' 'Friend, you say?' 'Friend, comrade, associate.' 'He's dead’ snapped the man.
'I…' I reached for the wall, feeling the powdery whitewash rubbing against my palm. Horst could not be dead. The bacon turned to rottenness in my stomach.
'Listen, sir, I do not wish to seem unmannerly, but I have passed this morning and the greater balance of yesterday scrubbing his blood from bed linen and floor, which is all in the way of an innkeeper's trade, no doubt, but the thing of it is, your… your friend had no coin with him that we could find, and so there has been a tragedy, my poor wife is undone with the horror of it, and we are out of purse. There you have it.'
'Good master innkeeper, do not trouble yourself over payment. I will cover it’I said briskly, straightening up. I wished I could be sick, but there would be time enough for that. The man brightened, and so I pressed on: What happened? Where is he?'
'The holy brothers took him to the charnel house’ said the innkeeper. He was still furious, it seemed, although with me or with fate I could not tell. So I pulled out my purse and found an appropriate coin.
Will that allay your trouble?' I asked, tersely. But the two of them brightened, and the woman took the coin and vanished with it into the side room. 'And now, please: what happened to my friend?' I demanded.
'It was not last night, but the night before’ the innkeeper told me at last. He had led me into a dining room and poured me a mug of cool wine and one for himself. 'Master Horst had arrived from Spoleto and took one of our best rooms. A fine-looking gentleman, and very well mannered…'
That he was’ I agreed, thinking how fitting it was that tall, stern Horst, knight of Prussia, should leave this final impression.
'He ate here, and stayed up late, for he appreciated our wine…' I nodded again. I'm sure he did, I thought. Just as I had enjoyed my own dinner in Spoleto, which ought to have been my last. As grief wrapped its tatters about me, I saw, in the merciless glare of hindsight, the trap that had been laid for us both. Chance, blind chance that I had escaped, and my friend had not. '… and took himself off to bed after midnight’ the man continued. 'He told us he thought a friend might join him that day or the next, so when the other gentleman arrived we thought nothing of it, and sent him up to your friend's room.' 'He was expecting me’ I put in. 'He left me a message in Spoleto, where I had planned to meet him. And there…' I stopped myself. 'No matter. Who was this other gentleman?' 'A Venetian’ he said, as I knew he would. 'How did you know that?'
'Oh, by his voice – talked through his nose. And by his ridiculous, foppish dress’ said the innkeeper scornfully. 'Showing his knees, if you can believe it.' 'I can indeed’ I muttered.
'And then there came a crashing and banging, which we tried to ignore, as we pride ourselves, sir, on our discretion. But then came laughter and then nothing, and we forgot about the noise until next morning, when the chambermaid found him.'
'Found Horst…' I said, an image forming in my mind. I tried to drive it out, but it would not go.
'Found your friend dead on the bed, all cut up. I have never seen the like. There was blood everywhere – oh, sir, I do beg your pardon’ he said quickly, and poured me more wine. 'In our business one does endure the occasional death on the premises, but from apoplexies or fevers. Never-' 'And the Venetian?' I broke in.
'Vanished. Gone out the window, most likely. It would not have been hard.' 'And everything was gone? All Horst's belongings?'
'His bag was emptied and there were clothes strewn all over. But we only found clothes. No other effects, no papers, no…' 'No money.'
'Quite. And so we did not know what to do. The holy brothers minister to the dead in our city, and they were called. He will be lying in their house.' 'Oh, Christ’ I said, rubbing my hot but tearless eyes. 'He would have been buried in a nameless pit, would he not?'
'And so thank the merciful Lord that his friend has come to save him from that’ said the innkeeper hurriedly.
He took me up to the room, but I saw nothing but a bare bed-frame and clean flagstones that reeked of lye. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and the place had nothing to tell me. I looked at Horst's clothes, but indeed that was all that had been left. In a daze, I picked out a tunic and some leggings, things that I remembered him wearing, to clothe his corpse for burial, and told the innkeeper to give the rest to the poor. Then he led me through the noise and life of market day to the monastery of the black monks who had taken care of my friend. A friendly, ruddy-faced brother – not at all what I had expected, in truth, for to work with the dead has always seemed to me a dark and lonely vocation – met us at the door and led us through white cloisters to a long room lined with marble-topped plinths, perhaps ten or twelve of them. All were empty save one, and on that one lay a long shape draped with a sheet of white linen.
Horst was dead all right, although as one so often finds oneself doing when confronted with such an obvious fact, I found myself checking for signs of life. But his skin was waxen and his lips were already drawing back into the yellow grin of death. His throat had been cut, which must have been the fatal blow, but I supposed he must have fought his murderer, for he bore many other wounds: a long slash across his brow, and punctures next to his breast-bone and in his belly. His hands were also cut, and the bones were showing through the butchered skin of his palms.
You are merchants?' the brother was asking. I nodded, swallowing down my rising gorge. 'So many robberies, I am afraid’ he said almost apologetically. "These are troubled times.'
'Many robberies, good brother, but murders?' I asked. The monk stroked his tonsured scalp absently.
'Murders, yes, of course. Those who love His Holiness are assassinated by the followers of the emperor, and, one has to admit, vice versa’
'This is the emperor's city,' put in the innkeeper, with a certain pride.
'As I said, troubled times,' the monk said diplomatically. 'But a killing like this, for the sake of robbery?' He scratched his head again. ‘I will admit, I was surprised.'
'And yet you see many corpses,' I said, curious despite the confusion of my grief.
'Such is the calling of this house,' he replied, bowing his head. It was a show of piety, but I thought that the monk was a practical more than a holy man, and a good one, at that. Yes, indeed we see the dead. I said these were troubled times, but, my son, look about you! I have seen every table in use, and more poor souls stretched out on the floor. Wars, and plague – the Lord sees fit to keep us busy. But, come to that, I have not often seen a thief go at his victim in this manner. He fought back, your friend: one can see from the hands.'
I nodded, sickened. Well, there was nothing more to be done. I thanked the brother, paid for a handsome burial for poor Horst and left a donation for the house and, for the sake of appearances, bought a mass for Horst's soul, although I was sure the beneficiary would not have approved. Then, business being done, I turned back to the corpse. He had been my friend, this man. Nay, we had been companions. We had drunk together, worked side by side and shared our tales and hopes through long watches at sea. With what patience he had taught me, his clumsy, clay-footed friend, how to ride! And now I must remember him thus, laid out like meat upon a butcher's stall. For the sake of propriety I crossed myself, then, in the manner of the Cormaran, I bent to kiss his cold lips goodbye. And as I leaned down I saw, in the corner of his mouth, pasted to the grey skin by a dab of dried spittle, a scrap of parchment. I made to smooth his face and picked it off with my thumbnail, gave my kiss and walked out past carven skulls and murals of dancing bones.
So I did not tarry in Foligno – not even long enough for lunch, for I could not have faced it – and set off instead up the Ravenna Road, up into the high mountains. Night found me bedding down in a verminous hostelry in some nameless hamlet, feeling alone and with a chill upon my soul, for I had planned to have Horst for company, and now I would never see him again. Then – and only then, by the light of a stinking tallow candle – could I bring myself to look at whatever I had taken from my friend's dead lips. It was not parchment, but paper, white paper, a piece no bigger than a fingernail, but on it there still remained a few strokes of ink, and though these had run, I could make out a 'c' and an V. An idea flared in my confused mind, and with a tremble of excitement I pulled out the Captain's letter to me. If truth be told, I could not say yea or nay that the characters matched, for Horst's were all but washed away. But they were similar enough to my eye to set my hand a-tremble. Horst had died in the act of destroying a letter from the Captain.
And so I read my own letter again. There was the warning against Venetians, of which Horst must have been well aware. There again the order to join Gilles at Ancona. I rubbed my eyes in frustration, for I had not slept properly for two days and my head was pounding. What should I do? It seemed to me that the value of this commission was negated by Horst's death, and in that case I should hurry to Venice, to warn the Captain. But that would be to disobey his command. I wondered if Horst had kept his attacker from reading his letter, and what papers the Venetian had taken from his body. I thought about this as hard as I could, although my skull felt as though it were caught in the pincers of a huge crab.
In his scribble to me Horst had said only that he had been sent to divert me to Ancona, whence he too was speeding. Would he have had papers from the Captain to Gilles? Most likely, and now the enemy, whoever he might be, must have them, for Horst could not have bolted the lot. But again, Horst's last meal: surely, in extremis, he would have sought to destroy the most important letter? I had to hope so. Christ. Everything was turning to stink and ruin beneath my feet, treacherous as a Dartmoor quagmire. Two men dead in as many nights, and all for what? For the enrichment of a ridiculous boy-king? Or for… I thought of the list Michael Scotus had given me. Valueless, the Captain had called the things that were named there. And yet how many men had died since I had first heard them spoken of? Fulk and Gautier, Giovanni, and now Horst. I could place a value upon them.
But Horst's murder had opened another wound, for I had not forgotten our last conversation, and his doubts about Anna’s death. Horst had believed it was murder, that someone had used a destrier’s hooves as a weapon. I had kept my own thoughts at bay, but now that my friend had himself been murdered, I could hold them off no longer. Someone had wanted Anna dead. Who that might be I did not know, but the strange letter had seemed to speak of Greece. Could it have been her own uncle? But there was no reason for that. Someone from her past? That was more promising. The Captain had rescued her from exile in Greenland, where she had been sent when the mad Norse prince she had been given to as a child bride had turned upon her. Did the prince still live? I had no doubt that, from the tales that Anna had told of her life in Trondheim, he was mad enough. But where was the profit in this? She was dead, and I was yet alive and mired to the ears in some business that was threatening to devour the only world I had known these past two years.
I laid my head down at last, after I had barred the door with a chair and balanced upon that a pitcher of water, so that it would overturn if the door opened and wake me – in theory, at least. I did not dare undress, but lay like a knight on a tomb, hands clasped on the hilt of my sword. I was bound for Ancona, then. At least I knew the way, for the Ravenna Road passed through that city – indeed, that was where I would have turned north towards Venice. And then the solution slapped me across the face: Gilles was in Ancona. He would know what to do. All I had to do was find the Three Dolphins.
I slept, finally, for with my decision – or rather, my decision to leave any and all decisions to someone else, one of the most satisfying choices one is ever given the luxury to make – the crab had at last released my skull, and I passed the night unmolested save for bedbugs. Dawn found me on the road in the crisp air of the mountains, and alone; The stone-faced widow who had been my ungracious hostess had seen and heard nobody upon the road at night, and neither had the wall-eyed groom. I began to believe that I was not being followed after all, for I had seen no other riders behind me, even with the long views granted by my swooping route across the mountains, and I had not tarried long in one place since leaving Spoleto. And so I took myself over the Apennine Mountains and filled myself with their glorious solitude, as summer came to its peak around me, bleaching the grass in the valleys, drying up the stream-beds and making the very air shiver. And by the time I had passed over their spine and had dropped down into the rolling land between the peaks and the sea, the leaves were almost turning.